Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“Nobody knows.”
I looked from Massimo to the note.
“You were in an accident with your wife, and she disappeared?”
“She wasn't my wife legally.”
His voice had turned distant.
“Elena and I were engaged.”
“That isn't what you just said.”
“It was what she was to me.”
He took the paper.
The handwriting wasn't his.
“Who wrote this?”
“I was hoping you knew.”
Massimo wheeled toward the window.
The accident had happened four months earlier on a wet road near the estate.
According to him, Elena Bellini had been driving.
Massimo remembered an argument.
Headlights.
The car leaving the road.
Then waking in a hospital two days later.
“Elena wasn't admitted?”
“No.”
“Body?”
“No.”
“Blood?”
“Enough to make people assume she was badly injured.”
“Police?”
“My family handled it.”
That sentence told me everything about how Pascales dealt with authorities.
“Your family said she ran?”
“Vittorio said evidence suggested someone pulled her from the car. My mother believed Elena arranged the crash and disappeared.”
“And you?”
Massimo looked at his legs.
“I couldn't remember.”
I hated how easily a disabled man could be made dependent on other people's version of events.
Especially a powerful man suddenly unable to follow the evidence himself.
“Show me her picture.”
He opened a drawer.
Inside lay a photograph facedown.
Elena stood beside Massimo at what looked like a summer barbecue.
She was beautiful, but that wasn't what caught me.
Beside her stood a little boy around six.
Dark curls. Serious brown eyes.
He was holding Massimo's hand.
“Who’s the child?”
Massimo's fingers tightened.
“Elena's son. Leo.”
“Where is he?”
“With her sister, supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“Elena kept Leo away from my business. After the crash, her sister took him out of Massachusetts.”
Something about the photograph bothered me.
Then I saw it.
Massimo wore the silver watch.
The glass wasn't cracked.
On Elena's wrist was a narrow red bracelet.
I had seen that bracelet.
Yesterday.
On the wrist of the older woman who had brought fresh towels into Massimo's bathroom.
“Who handles your laundry?”
“What?”
“The woman with gray hair. Maybe sixty. She wears a red woven bracelet.”
Massimo turned sharply.
“Teresa?”
“Is that her name?”
He was already moving toward the door.
I blocked his chair.
“No.”
“Move.”
“You can't storm through the house accusing employees.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want in my own house.”
“And whoever switched your medication is counting on exactly that.”
That stopped him.
Barely.
I found Teresa in the laundry room.
When she saw the photograph in my hand, all color left her face.
“Where did you get that?”
“Massimo.”
She stepped backward.
The red bracelet disappeared beneath her sleeve.
“Please leave.”
“Did Elena give you that bracelet?”
Teresa's eyes filled.
“Miss Fitzgerald—”
“Massimo's being given medication that interferes with his recovery.”
Her fear changed.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
“Oh, God.”
“You knew?”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“Then tell me.”
Teresa looked toward the hallway.
“Not here.”
She led me into a linen closet and closed the door.
“Elena made that bracelet for me. Leo made one too, but his fell apart.”
“Where are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Massimo says Elena disappeared.”
“She did.”
“Did she cause the accident?”
Teresa's eyes hardened.
“No.”
That was the first definite answer anyone had given me.
“Elena was frightened before the crash. She told me someone had been changing Massimo's prescriptions.”
“Before he was injured?”
“Not his pain medicine. His blood pressure medication. She said he had dizzy spells.”
My stomach dropped.
The crash might not have started at 9:17.
It might have started weeks earlier.
“Why didn't you tell him?”
“I tried.”
Teresa's voice broke.
“After surgery, he was confused. Vittorio said discussing Elena caused dangerous agitation. Dr. Rinaldi ordered us not to mention her.”
“And the note in his watch?”
“I didn't put it there.”
She opened a cabinet behind folded sheets.
From the back, she removed a child's drawing.
Three figures stood beneath a crooked yellow sun.
A tall man.
A woman wearing red.
A small boy.
Above them, in shaky letters:
ME + MOM + M
On the back was another drawing.
A black car.
A red car.
And a stick figure beside the road.
I stared.
“Leo drew this?”
“The morning after the accident.”
“He saw it?”
Teresa nodded.
“He was supposed to be sleeping at his aunt's house. Elena had brought him back because he forgot his school bag.”
“Where was he?”
“In the back seat.”
My blood ran cold.
“There was a child in the car?”
“No. Elena left him inside the house when she and Massimo drove out. But Leo watched from the upstairs window.”
The drawing showed the black car following them.
“Who owned the black car?”
Teresa swallowed.
“Half the Pascale men drive black cars.”
Not enough.
But something.
When I returned to Massimo, Vittorio was waiting.
The photograph was gone from the table.
He smiled at me.
“You've been busy.”
Massimo's eyes met mine.
Warning.
Vittorio placed my specimen envelope beside the medication tray.
“You sent pills out for testing.”
“How did you get that?”
“This house has security.”
“So much for patient confidentiality.”
“Massimo is my brother.”
“He's my patient.”
“And this family is my responsibility.”
Massimo's voice went quiet.
“Leave us, Vittorio.”
Vittorio didn't move.
Then Massimo said, “Now.”
His brother finally left.
I closed the door.
“He knows.”
“Obviously.”
“Teresa says Elena suspected someone was altering your medication before the crash.”
Massimo's face changed.
I showed him Leo's drawing.
For a long time, he didn't speak.
Then he touched the little figure labeled M.
“I was going to adopt him.”
That surprised me.
“Leo?”
“Elena wanted to wait until after the wedding.”
His thumb moved over the paper.
“I told him once that a Pascale doesn't abandon family.”
Pain entered his voice.
“I woke up and both of them were gone.”
Something in me softened.
This wasn't simply about an accident anymore.
Massimo had lost his body, his future, and the family he intended to build in a single night.
“Then get stronger,” I said.
His eyes rose.
“Why?”
“Because we're going to find out what happened.”
The next week became war.
Massimo hated parallel bars.
He hated assisted standing.
He hated me counting seconds.
But he improved.
First ten seconds upright.
Then twenty-three.
Then forty.
One afternoon, he stood with both hands on the bars while I stabilized his knees.
His face was white with effort.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“You're shaking.”
“I said no.”
“Massimo—”
He shifted his weight.
His right foot moved forward three inches.
His first step.
He looked at me.
For once, the dangerous Massimo Pascale had absolutely nothing to say.
Then applause came from the doorway.
His mother stood there.
Lucia Pascale was elegant, silver-haired, and completely composed.
“Remarkable.”
Massimo lowered himself.
I watched Lucia.
Her expression wasn't happiness.
It was fear.
She walked toward him and touched his cheek.
“My son.”
Massimo caught her wrist.
“Did you give me pills last week?”
Lucia's eyes moved to me.
“Who told you that?”
“Answer.”
“I gave you what Dr. Rinaldi prescribed.”
“Did you know Elena thought someone was drugging me before the crash?”
Lucia went pale.
Massimo saw it.
So did I.
“You knew,” he said.
Lucia slowly withdrew her hand.
“Yes.”
Massimo's face hardened.
“And you said nothing?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Her eyes filled unexpectedly.
“From Elena.”
I thought Massimo would explode.
Instead, Lucia reached into her coat.
She removed a gold necklace.
A small saint's medal hung from it.
Massimo stared.
“Elena's.”
May you like
Lucia nodded.
“I found it in Vittorio's car the morning after your accident.”
